"How was that?" asked the Sub.
"Simply that my old 'bus was just a few feet above the highest point reached by the up-flung metal before gravity won the tug-of-war, don't you know. Then I came tumbling down, doing a sort of splitasse all over the place. Thought I was going to crash right on top of a house when the 'bus sort of pulled herself together, flattened out and then made a fairly decent sort of landing in the middle of the canal, which wasn't bad for a machine without a tail. Next thing I remember was being hauled on board a boat and taken off to the head of the Mole. Why the Boches wanted to do that puzzles me. It wasn't out of consideration for you, old bird."
"Evidently not," remarked Seton. "It's my belief, strengthened by a hint from von Brockdorff-Giespert, that we are here as a species of cock-shies for our own fellows. By the by, have you met von Brockdorff-Giespert?"
"The U-boat staff-bloke? Rather!" replied the pilot. "He tried to pump me, and, finding that was no go, tried to put the screw on. There was nothin' doin'."
The pilot paced up and down the limits of his prison-cell like a caged animal. Then suddenly wheeling, he asked:
"Ever thought of doing a bunk?"
"Many a time," replied the Sub. "That's as far as it went. Even supposing I got clear of this show, what's to be done? Not a chance of finding a boat, and putting to sea."
"Putting to sea!" repeated the airman. "That's all you sailors think about. The Huns know it too, and directly you were missed they'd send out torpedo-craft as far as they dared go to look for you. No, it's inland—that's the wheeze. It would put the Boches off the scent, and a fellow would stand a fighting chance of getting across into Holland."
"We're still behind iron bars—and massive ones at that," Seton reminded him.
"Quite so," admitted Smith. "There are other means; this was a gun-emplacement."